


High Times

by moony



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Boys Kissing, M/M, Recreational Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-16
Updated: 2014-01-16
Packaged: 2018-01-08 21:52:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,669
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1137801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moony/pseuds/moony
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One afternoon, on a lazy, hot summer day not long after graduation, Stiles and Lydia discover the exact ratio of wolfsbane to marijuana required to fuck up a werewolf.</p>
            </blockquote>





	High Times

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fiveyearmission](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fiveyearmission/gifts).



> This is about werewolves and teenagers getting high. There's some making out that happens. If you don't like people making out while high, you should not read this. If it offends you that people might make out while high, don't read this.
> 
> I wrote this as a goofy little treat for my BFF and I decided to post it because of reasons.

 

One afternoon, on a lazy, hot summer day not long after graduation, Stiles and Lydia discover the exact ratio of wolfsbane to marijuana required to fuck up a werewolf.

Scott is horrified for exactly ten seconds before he's begging to try it. "I could never do it before," he says. "Because of my asthma, y'know?"

"My brother had some once," says Isaac. "I was, like, thirteen. He let me try a little. It made me hungry." He shrugs in an effort to look nonchalant about it. It fails. "I could do it again."

Allison pouts a little. "Do you have any of the regular kind left?" she asks, and Stiles presents her with a fat, expertly-rolled joint. She beams and pecks him on the cheek. "My favorite human," she says.

"Excuse me," says Lydia. Allison looks at her.

"Banshee," replies Allison, tugging at her hair.

When Derek finds out, he says, "Don't do it at the loft." They wait until he's out before they invade the place and sprawl out on the sofa. The wolfsbane-weed concoction flares a bit when first lit, and the smoke seems to glow a faint blue.

"The mechanism is simple," says Lydia. She's sharing Allison's joint, blowing smoke rings that settle like a halo around her perfect hair. "This strain of wolfsbane suppresses natural werewolf immunity just enough to allow the THC to work. The results don't last as long as in humans, so you have to increase your intake, but the effect is nearly identical."

"How," says Stiles. He's on the floor, wrapped up in blankets from Derek's bed, shoes off and his feet stuck up in the air. He wiggles his toes. "How are you fucked up and still the smartest person in the room?"

"It's hardly an achievement," she says, handing off the joint to Stiles. "I'm always the smartest person in the room."

"Truth," says Stiles. He pinches the joint between his lips and takes too deep a breath and coughs into a throw pillow (since when does Derek Hale have throw pillows). "Ack. Oh my God, I think my lungs are on fire."

"Amateur," says Isaac. He takes a hit from the Coke can bong and coughs so hard tears stream from his eyes. "Jesus, that's- That shit is strong."

Stiles cheers a little from his blanket burrito. "Yay," he says, voice muffled by the pillow. "Revenge."

They fully expect Derek to freak out once he gets back, but to their surprise he doesn't. He just walks in, puts a bag of groceries down on the counter, and sighs at them. Isaac, draped over the sofa like a particularly long sloth, gives a little wave.

"Is it working, at least?" asks Derek. He comes over to inspect their makeshift bong, sniffing delicately at it. "What strain did you use?"

"Deaton supplied the wolfsbane," says Stiles. "Lydia got the pot. Medical grade, of course. Nothing but the best!"

Derek gives him a look, then holds out his hand for the lighter. Stiles sits up - oh, too fast, the room gives an almighty lurch, tipping him right back over again. "You're kidding," he says. "You're going to actually do it? Oh, Santa got my letters after all!"

"Why're you so invested in me getting high?" asks Derek.

"I'm invested," says Stiles, "because I've never once seen you make any other face than this one." He scrunches his eyebrows together and turns his mouth down in an approximation of what he thinks Derek usually looks like.

"You look like Popeye," says Isaac.

"You look like a garden gnome," says Allison.

"You look like you have to poop," says Scott.

"That is what you look like," says Stiles to Derek. "All the time."

Derek scowls. "Yeah, well, you-"

"Boys." Lydia points Derek to the special, magic werewolf pot. "Get to it, Hale."

To his credit, Derek doesn't cough, but it's a very near thing. Stiles can see his eyes watering. "Christ," Derek says, hoarsely. "That's disgusting."

"It does that," says Scott, now on his back with his head in Allison's lap, his feet in Lydia's, and swooping one hand around in the air. "Tastes like burning rubber at first, but then it's not bad. Then it feels awesome."

"Uergh," says Derek. He makes a face as he exhales; the the plume of faintly illuminated smoke - all hail the glow cloud, thinks Stiles - settles around him like fog gathering at the summit of a mountain. It's fitting. Because Derek is a mountain of a man.

"Mountain man," says Stiles, pointing at Derek. He doesn't even really know what's coming out of his own mouth anymore. He flails his hand in Derek's direction. "Come sit by me." Stiles pats the blankets. "Plenty of room."

"Ugh, don't." Scott takes back the Coke can. "Stiles is like an octopus when he's high. He tries to make out with everybody."

Derek shrugs and sits by Stiles anyway, because there aren't any other options really. Stiles promptly oozes up to him, limbs tangling with Derek's. "Hi," he says.

"Hello," says Derek. "Why are you on me?" From close up, Stiles can see Derek's eyes are a little unfocused, and there's red in his cheeks where there wasn't any before.

"You're big," says Stiles. "Very warm. I like big-and-warm."

"I told you," says Scott. "The last time he got high around me, he made out with my elbow. Called it Lydia."

Lydia pauses in braiding Allison's hair. "Ew," she says. "I have no idea what to do with that. I am a far better kisser than Scott's elbow." She kicks at Stiles's foot. "That was a ridiculous statement for me to have to make, and I resent you for making me say it."

Stiles looks up at Derek. "Everything is ridiculous. You're ridiculously hot, for example." He nuzzles his face into the crook of Derek's arm. Derek can feel him breathing steadily, deeply, like he's inhaling Derek's scent. Stiles says something else, but it's muffled against Derek's armpit.

"What?"

"Mmfh," says Stiles, emerging to blink up at him. "You smell good."

"Huh," says Derek, and the stuff is really hitting him now, he's relaxing more, leaning against Stiles, shifting his own arm so that it's more or less curled around him. They're technically snuggling, but Derek's not high enough to be completely comfortable with that so he leans over and plucks the bong from Scott's hands and takes another hit.

"How you doin', Angstypants Vandersulk?" asks Stiles, and it takes Derek a full 30 seconds to understand what Stiles is saying and that it's directed toward him.

"What?" Derek looks down at him. Somehow he's worked a hand into Stiles's hair, petting him like a cat. "That doesn't even make sense."

"Lurkandsulk Crankypatch," says Stiles, giggling. "Grumblyangst Mylifeissohard."

Derek stares at him. "What are you-" He notices everyone else is laughing - Isaac is turning red in the face. "I don't get it."

"You would if you went on the internet once in a while," says Stiles between giggles. The giggling is annoying, and contagious. Derek feels his mouth twitching, and then he's laughing, and then he's rolling over and pushing Stiles into the pillows, holding his head down and digging his fingers into Stiles's side.

The giggling turns into undignified shrieking.

"Oh God!" Scott wails. "This is it, this is when they start making out."

"Would you - ow, quit it - stop saying that?!" says Derek, jerking his hand away when Stiles bites him. "Jesus, nobody's making out with anybody."

"That's what you think," says Stiles, right before he does something complicated with his stupidly long legs, actually flips Derek over (what), and pushes their mouths together.

Derek is dimly aware of a cacophony of indignant squawks (mostly from Scott) and the sounds of scuffling feet and chairs being shoved out of the way, footsteps fleeing to another part of the loft, and then there's nothing but Stiles's inelegant attempt at a kiss, a messy slide of lips and - yeah, that's a warm tongue, except it's sliding across his chin. It's kind of gross.

"No," he says, shoving at Stiles, then pulling him back in. "Just- here." Their mouths connect again and this time it makes more sense, tongue to tongue, wet all in the right places.

"Okay," says Stiles, and his teeth click against Derek's when he talks. "Yeah, this is okay."

"You're sure?" Derek knows something about advantage, and taking it, and having it taken from you. "Maybe we- Stiles, maybe we should wait a while."

"Waited long enough," says Stiles, pushing his hands up under Derek's shirt. "Had to get you where I wanted you."

"What, high?" asks Derek, though he's fully aware of what he's doing; the werewolf weed isn't that strong and he hasn't had much — it's already starting to wear off. "Why now?"

"You had to relax." Stiles surfaces, looking kissed-out and bewildered that they're talking instead of making the fuck out. "You're always so... grrrrrar!" He crooks his fingers and makes what he thinks is a scary face (it's not even remotely a scary face, it looks more like he's itchy). "You're just... you're always so on edge all the time, and sometimes you don't have to be, and I thought if you'd relax a little maybe you'd wanna... y'know." Stiles looks exasperated. "Scott's a dick, I don't make out with everyone when I'm fucked up. Just the ones I want to make out with. And anyway," he says, poking Derek in the chest, "you kissed me back."

Derek sighs, rolls his eyes. "I'm not arguing with you," he says. "If you'd shut up long enough to notice. I was just making sure you know what you're doing. I'll kiss you, okay? As long as you-"

He's attacked again, knocked into the throw pillows (seriously, where did they come from), and Stiles's tongue is back in Derek's mouth, no longer tasting of acrid pot smoke. Now it tastes like them, the two of them, a unique combination that Derek could maybe get used to.


End file.
